Tailspin(11)

Timmy whistled. “She burns hot, don’t she? Bet she fucks like—”

Goliad’s arm sliced across the console of the car and clotheslined Timmy’s neck. “Remember who you’re talking about.” He pressed his arm against Timmy’s windpipe hard enough to make him wheeze. “Playing with your new laser,” he sneered. “This isn’t a game, you idiot.”

Slowly he released the pressure on Timmy’s throat and resettled himself behind the steering wheel. Out of the corner of his eye, he stayed aware of where Timmy put his hands. His right was rubbing his throat. Goliad half expected him to produce one of his blades with his left.

But he was gulping air and swallowing noisily. When he had his wind back, he croaked, “I was only joking.”

“Wasn’t funny. You work for them. Show respect for both, or this is your last detail.”

“Okay, okay,” Timmy mumbled. “So what now?”

Goliad started the car. “We go to the airstrip, be waiting for them when they get there.”

“That’s plan B?”

“That’s plan B.”

“You think the lady doctor will go along with us shouldering in on her?”

“She will once we tell her that we’ve been dispatched by Mrs. Hunt, personally. We’ll tell her that Mrs. Hunt was concerned for her, driving up here alone in the fog. Mrs. Hunt sent us to make sure she has a safe trip back.”

“She’ll buy that?”

“She’ll probably call and confirm.”

“What if she still doesn’t like it?”

“Let’s wait and see what happens.”

“What about the pilot?”

“Wait and see.” He looked over at the younger man. “We’re up shit creek. What are you grinning for?”

Timmy giggled. “‘Wait and see’ means I might get to kill somebody after all.”





Chapter 4

2:32 a.m.



A freight dog. That’s what they call you.”

“That’s one of the nice things,” Rye said.

After abandoning the plane, they had trekked through dense forest, made more challenging by the fog. However, they reached the doctor’s no-frills sedan without mishap or getting lost…only to be met there with another problem.

Rye had been about to get into the passenger seat when he noticed that the right front fender had collided with a fence post set in concrete. That side of the hood was buckled, but worse, the wheel was bent up under the chassis. He swore.

“What’s the matter?”

He looked at her across the roof of the car. “Don’t bother getting in. We’re not going anywhere in this.”

She’d walked around the rear end to join him on the passenger side and surveyed the damage with dismay. “I didn’t realize I’d hit it.”

“How could you not realize it?”

As exasperated as he, she fired back. “Something awful must’ve distracted me. Like a propeller in my windshield.”

Cursing under his breath, he’d gone around her and set out on foot. She hurried to catch up before he disappeared into the fog.

Within a few minutes, they’d reached the turnoff she had missed earlier. A sign pointed them toward the Howardville County Airfield. The road leading to it was bumpy, narrow, and enshrouded in fog. They stayed in the middle of it to avoid veering off into the ditches on either side.

He set a brisk pace. His companion had become a bit winded, her breaths escaping as puffs of vapor. But she hadn’t once complained or lagged behind. He supposed her mention of a freight dog was an attempt to make conversation, but he didn’t follow up on it. His thoughts were too focused on how he was going to deal with Brady White.

Why would the asshole offer to scare up a beer or two for him, then blind him with a laser beam?

Like drones, the more sophisticated, powerful, obtainable, and affordable lasers had become, the more of a hazard they posed to pilots and by extension the aviation industry. He’d read harrowing accounts from both private and commercial pilots who, hit by one, had narrowly avoided an accident. Many feared that it was only a matter of time before someone with a laser, either a terrorist or a prankster, caused a catastrophic crash.

Rye was well aware of the threat. He’d just never expected it to happen to him. It had. He’d come to within feet of killing the doctor, and, with just a bit more momentum when he hit that tree, his crash could have been fatal.

But, unless he caught that son of a bitch red-handed with the laser, he couldn’t prove it existed. If he called the cops and filed a formal complaint, it would be Rye’s word against White’s. Stalemate. A waste of time. A hassle that would keep him grounded for at least a few days.

Besides, he would rather skip getting local law enforcement involved and mete out White’s punishment himself.

He would have to include the laser in his accident report to the FAA. It was the responsible thing to do. He would do so with reluctance, however. Agents would be all over him, asking questions, forcing him to fill out countless, time-consuming forms.

On the upside: No damage had been done to property on the ground. Even the tree was still standing. No one had been injured. No one had died. The lack of casualties would minimize the amount of red tape.